Train Links by Elaine Terranova
A train will pass,
in the dark, refineries,
those ships of lights,
or the moon’s vigilance.
It takes us to work.
It takes us straight ahead
in our lives, except
as this last month,
when it has twice
proved fatal.
Once, in a heavy rain,
and all the trains thereafter,
late and slow.
The other time
they get us off
at 30th St. station onto
a bus they have waiting.
We lose a sense
of direction, stepping out
of who we are each day
at such a time, pausing maybe
to reconsider.
One could say
a benign hostage situation.
And there are platters
of chicken and ribs
picked up at the station.
We pair and trade life stories.
The bus begins to smell
like a third-world movie bus,
filled with the people
and domestic animals.
I can get you to Darby,
a woman taps the lost
bus driver’s shoulder.
Train accident? But a train
is a sure thing.
Those fast trains, you’d
calculate their speed
in decibels.
A pedestrian,
they said. Well, yes,
he moved his feet
but who would walk
unknowing past
a chain link fence?
Did I say that this
was the last beautiful day
of autumn?
We board again
and pass a clean up crew
in shirtsleeves
still pinching shut
square plastic bags,
the kind that keep
goldfish alive, red pooling
in the corners.
Again, that staircase motion,
shifting with it, until
the conductor calls
the next stop into existence
Poetry
© 2005-2008 Per Contra: The International Journal of the Arts, Literature and Ideas